“That’s the mischief of it as far as I am concerned,” he went on. “I can’t escape without injuring you and so myself—yet I don’t wonder at your hating me.”
She turned her face to him, it was flushed and wet.
“I do not hate you,” said she; “you are the only man I ever met—unselfish.”
“No,” he said, “I’m selfish. It’s just because I love you that I think of you more than myself, and I love you because you are good and sweet. I could not do you wrong just because of that. If you were another woman, I would not bother about you. I’d be cruel enough, I reckon, and go off and leave you tied up, and get back to the States—but you are you, and that’s my bother. I did not know till now how I was tied to you; yesterday at that asylum place and all last night I did not think of you. My one thought was to get away. I came here to-day, driven by want of money. I was so angry with the whole business, I determined to go on being Rochester—then you came into my mind and I sent Church to ask you to come and see me—much good it has done.”
“I don’t know,” she said.
He looked at her quickly. Her glance fell.
Next moment he was beside her, kneeling and holding her hand.
For a moment, they said not one word. Then he spoke as though answering questions.
“We can get married— Oh, I don’t mind going on being the Earl of Rochester. There were times when I thought I’d go cracked—but now you know the truth, I reckon I can go on pretending. People can have the marriage ceremony performed twice—of course, it would have to be private—I can’t think this is true—I don’t believe you can ever care for me—I don’t know, maybe you will—do you care for me for myself in the least—I reckon I’m half mad, but say—when did you begin to like me for myself—was it only just because you thought I was unselfish—was it—”
“If I like you at all,” she said, with a little catch in her voice, “perhaps it was that—night—”